


Lock the Cellar Door

by PersephoneTree



Series: Power and Control [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Consensual, Hand Jobs, Handcuffs, Incest, Kissing, Light Bondage, M/M, Nipple Play, Parent/Child Incest, Power Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-11
Updated: 2014-10-11
Packaged: 2018-02-20 18:50:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2439062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersephoneTree/pseuds/PersephoneTree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rumplestiltskin does not like relinquishing control. Except, these days, to Bae.</p><p>(In which Baelfire's pickpocket skills lead to hot basement bondage time, and Rumple gets another chance to prove he can change. WARNING: this is a consensual incest story in which both parties are legally consenting adults.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lock the Cellar Door

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cobblestoner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobblestoner/gifts).



> WARNING: consensual incest, light bondage. If either bothers you, dear reader, please turn back now and there will be no hard feelings.
> 
> This story and the others to come are set in a post-"Save Henry" AU in which Pan never switched bodies with Henry and everyone is living happily ever after (or trying to) in Storybrooke.
> 
> All credit for the Stiltskincest ship/name/inspiration goes to my darling pedertastic. This one's for you, dearie.

            They are in the basement of Gold’s house, half-clothed and kissing lazily against the wall. One of Rumple’s hands toys with the soft curls at the nape of Baelfire’s neck. The other is somewhere above their heads, gripping an exposed pipe to keep them from tumbling to the floor. Bae’s hands are everywhere at once, touching him first here, then there, never settling on one spot too long.

            Suddenly there is a _click,_ and Rumple feels cool metal tighten around his outstretched wrist. He twists his head away and up just in time to see Bae snap the other end of the handcuffs closed around the pipe. “Don’t those belong to our dear Sheriff Swan?” he inquires, fighting to keep the thrill from his voice.

            Bae drops his head and presses a kiss to Rumple’s exposed throat. Rumple can feel his smile bloom against the pulse there. “I’m good at stealing things.”

            “She’ll ask questions,” Rumple warns breathlessly. His free hand slides down to caress Bae’s naked back, fingers circling each vertebral knot.

            Bae huffs with laughter and looks up into his father’s face, brown eyes sparkling. “I’ll put them back when we’re done with them,” he says, and sinks to his knees.

            This is not a game, Rumple knows, despite the pleasure they derive from it. It is a test. If he wished himself free of his bonds, he could make it so with a mere twirl of his finger. But he will not. He does not use magic, not with Bae, and he does not fight back. For even with all that exists between them, all the love and passion and blood, there remains a deeply ingrained mistrust, like an ancient wound that can never fully heal, which goes back to a father and a son and a choice made in the night woods. _The wrong choice_.

            That is Rumplestiltskin’s test: the chance to choose rightly, this time, the previous times and every time hence. To give up his power, freely and willingly, simply to prove to Bae that he _can_.

            That Rumple finds it all extremely exciting is merely an added bonus.

            He cranes his neck to look down, appreciatively taking in the sight of his own pale chest before focusing on the dark crown of Bae’s head. He can feel fingers tugging at his belt, rough in their eagerness, and his hips cant forward of their own accord. Bae grunts and leans in to mouth at the delicate skin just below Rumple’s stomach, running his tongue along the trail of fine hairs there.

            “ _Bae_ ,” Rumple whimpers. His free right hand has been kneading Bae’s shoulder rhythmically; now he tightens his grip and gives the shoulder a tug, urging Bae back up for another kiss.

            Their mouths connect violently, and for a moment the hands at Rumple’s waist fumble for purchase, clumsy with desire. Then Bae pulls back, eyes feverishly bright, and redoubles his efforts towards Rumple’s belt, though he stays standing this time. Rumple cannot stop touching him, his neck and arms, his chest. He ghosts his free hand over one dark nipple and feels it pebble under his palm just as Bae yanks the belt loose at last.

            Soon they are both fully naked, pants pooled around their ankles, and Bae is pinning Rumple’s remaining hand against the wall, trapping his wrist at shoulder height. Rumple manages only a quick glance down at their cocks, flushed and so near to touching that he can feel the heat from the other’s skin, before Bae grips his chin and forces his head back.

            “Not yet,” he says, and there’s a sharp edge to his voice that Rumple recognizes. It is power – not magic, but the power of being in control, and it is clear that Bae is enjoying it. Rumple knows he is meant to play the opposite role; he is more than happy to oblige. He whines low in his throat, a noise of keen frustration, and watches as Bae’s eyes darken with arousal.

            “Oh, you _want_ this, don’t you?” Bae hisses, breathing hard.

            “ _Yes_ ,” Rumple breathes back. He tries to press himself closer to Bae, but the handcuffs go taut and he falls short, keeping them a hair’s breadth apart.

            “Then you’ll get it,” Bae says, and grins a deliciously boyish grin. “Eventually.”

             What follows is torture of the purest form. Working his way down his father’s body at a snail’s pace, Bae places kisses light as butterflies on his most sensitive areas: the hollow of his throat, the curve where neck and shoulder meet, the tender flesh under his arm. When Bae’s head dips and he feels soft lips close around his right nipple, Rumple moans and his eyes slide shut. He tucks his chin to his chest and nuzzles Bae’s hair, reveling in the clean, cut-grass scent of him. _My beautiful boy_.

            Bae shows no mercy. He suckles and sips at the teat like a starving babe, tongue tracing maddening circles that leave Rumple open-mouthed and panting. Callused fingers pinch his other nipple gently, eliciting a wordless gasp, before gliding down to rest at Rumple’s waist. After an eternity or more, Bae releases the swollen nub with a wet, satisfied sound, then breathes hotly over the neglected one before bringing his teeth down to scrape against it.

            The back of Rumple’s head hits the wall. The ache between his legs is unbearable; Bae’s hand burns like a brand on his hip. “Please,” he begs. It is not a word he says often. “Please, god, touch me.”

             He can feel Bae tremble at the plea, feel his son’s forehead damp with sweat against his breastbone as Bae leans into him. The hand at his hip disappears, and Rumple feels Bae’s breathing stutter across his skin. Then something falls across his open mouth, covering it, sealing it – a moment of panic – before Bae whispers, “Gonna need a little help first.”

            Understanding dawns fast, titillating and heady, and a smile quirks the corner of Rumple’s lips as he laves Bae’s palm with an ardent tongue. It only takes a few good licks before Bae lowers his arm and steps forward, closing the distance between them at last and taking hold of them both with his spit-slicked hand.

            Rumplestiltskin’s knees give out at the first stroke. The handcuffs take his weight and keep him upright, but the metal bites into his wrist and his shoulder torques awkwardly. He hisses at the pain, and Bae pauses to steady him. “You okay?” he asks, searching Rumple’s face with concerned eyes.

            Rumple soothes him with a smile. “Yes, yes, I’m fine.” His wrist is sore, but he will heal quickly enough. He uses the cuffs’ tension to regain his footing, and the pipe creaks a warning overhead. “I’m _fine_ ,” he insists, when Bae does not immediately resume his attentions.

            Chuckling, Bae urges him backward until they are firmly pressed against the wall, then picks up where he left off, hand gliding smoothly across slick, heated skin. He has released his hold on Rumple’s right arm, and now Rumple drapes it around Bae’s neck to drag his head down. “I love you,” he murmurs into the pink shell of Bae’s ear. “I love you.”

            When Bae pulls away, it is only to kiss him.

            There are no more words, after that, just the two of them moving against each other in the half-light, breaths and pulses falling into sync as Bae’s fist rises and falls between them. Rumple comes first, with a ragged sigh and Bae’s lips bruising his throat. Bae isn’t far behind; soon he too shudders and tenses, burying his face in Rumple’s shoulder.

            They rest there in each other’s arms until their breathing slows. The concrete wall is rough against Rumple’s back, warm from his skin. At last Bae steps back and kneels, groping for his jeans. He fumbles in the pockets and stands back up with a small silver key in his fingers. “Good thing I stole this, too, huh?”

            “Smart lad,” Rumple sighs, as Bae reaches up to release him. He knows, as Bae does, that he does not really _need_ a key to loosen the cuffs; that it would be faster to use magic than to hang there as Bae squints and fiddles at the tiny keyhole. But he is still warm and tingling and weary with love, and for the moment he finds he is truly content to be powerless.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from the song "Talk Dirty to Me" by Poison.


End file.
